


alone is what I have (alone protects me)

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (also not James’ kid but shhhh saying the real dad’s name would be telling), (even though it’s probably extremely evident considering the fandom), Alternate Universe - Mary Morstan Doesn't Exist, Author is an anxious nerd so like I may suddenly take this down, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Gangs, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jim Moriarty Lives, London, No Eurus Holmes, Past Child Abuse, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t fake his death, Smart Harry Potter, adding tags as I go, also fair warning this is going to be a lot more Sherlock fandom that HP fandom, because he is s m a r t, but that’s only a chance in the first few days I think, but yeah, feel free to tell me if I missed a tag p l e a s e, hhhh I don’t know what else to tag, homeless children, its only season 1 compliant really, like Harry ain’t going to hogwarts so yeah, like I got British blood and I may be Canadian but I ain’t a brit, maybe some of season 2, no beta we die like canon moriarty, okay y’all so I ain’t a brit, so sorry for any mistakes on like say calling rubbish trash, sorry folks, stuff like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23816518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a thousand million hundred other universes, Harry James Potter was the son of Lily Potter and James Potter.This is not one of those universes.In a thousand million hundred other universes, when nineteen year old Lily Potter got upset with James Potter on Halloween night, she made him sleep on the couch before they made up— which was the conception of Harry James Potter.This is not one of those universes.In this universe Lily Potter went to a muggle bar in muggle London and drank burning liquor that was most certainly not butterbeer or firewhiskey until she was giggling and stumbling and childishly sulking before she started ranting about her husband to the poor bartender.In this universe a nineteen year old genius was experimental and drunk off his ass as he deduced the red headed woman was the most likely one to respond to his advances.In this universe that was still Harry James Potter’s conception date.Just... without James Potter.And so, Harry James Potter was no longer eligible for the prophecy.Harry James Potter was no longer even a Potter.And so, everything changed.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, i really have no clue - Relationship, like there is going to be stuff all over the place maybe some, maybe some - Relationship, stealing a line from Barbie and saying anything is possible, uh - Relationship, which would probably only be undertones
Comments: 20
Kudos: 151





	1. is it nice not being me? (it must be so relaxing)

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so first things first, I politely request you do not flame me, or generally criticize me, even with constructive criticism. It just sends my anxiety into overdrive and it’s really not very pleasant.
> 
> Next thing, I got no clue what to make for his, I’m making it up as I go. Moriarty will stay alive, Mary Morstan doesn’t exist, Eurus Holmes doesn’t exist, Sherlock doesn’t fake his death— yeah. I really don’t know what I’m doing with my life.
> 
> Anyways, this is largely centered on Sherlock and I doubt Harry will even go to Hogwarts at all, sorry folks. Also, uh, I might take this down at some point around when I first post it because I get really shaky and anxious and generally feel like my work is shit and no one wants to see it so I take it down. A different version of this story with the same idea— well, I’d id that to a different version that I made of this at one point. Anyways, uh, hope you enjoy this lol.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically a pilot thingnyntyt
> 
> I’m cold

Harry Potter had always known he was different.

In many ways, too.

From the ‘freakish’ incidents that occurred when he panicked or was otherwise upset, to the way he could tell how long a man had been single from the state of his stubble, he was most definitely different.

Most children his age were busy picking at their noses and eating up the boogers.

Harry was busy picking at encyclopedias and eating up dictionaries.

Although, he rarely called himself Harry, and only responded to it for the... ‘adults’. He didn’t like the name, and although Petunia and Vernon were very obviously lying whenever they referenced his parents’ deaths (stammering, perspiration beading on their unfortunate looking faces, reddening of Vernon’s and whitening of Petunia’s whenever he hinted that they might be lying, how utterly bare they were on the details, stammering whenever questioned before resorting to the lovely “No questions!”, quick glancing to the left, if he was near them he might spot the raised pulses, dilated pupils, etc.), he had to admit he didn’t hold much fondness for them. He didn’t even know their names— but that was also the point. How could you hold fondness for people you didn’t even know?

Harry had puzzled over that question, before laying his research down to rest for a bit (he  _ did not  _ give _up_ ), and choosing a better name. Harlow. He had always liked Old English (it sounded absolutely  _fascinating!_ ), so it was only sensible to choose a name that was in Old English. Besides, to his dead mum and dad, wherever they were, at the very least he kept the first three letters of his name.

And so, Harlow Potter continued in a strange fashion for a long while.

Seeing and... knowing things about people. Working things out about them so quickly he wasn’t quite sure how he did it at points, although he did wonder at the adults stumbling around blindly, looking but not  _seeing_ . How strange it must be to be so blind to the world around them. To not know that the respectable looking man over there had four wives, none of them knowing of the others, or that the elderly woman over there was  _ obviously  _ a major kleptomaniac in her youth, and still occasionally snatched things for the thrill.

His strange—not inexplicable, everything could be explained and things described as inexplicable or unexplainable were only things people were too idiotic to explain as of yet—... outbursts lessened over the years, until it was only once or twice a year.

Which was good, because they usually landed Harlow in rather unfortunate circumstances. He theorized that they happened when he felt strong emotions, but he had remarkable emotional control compared to other children his age— and older, really, although he knew that it was most probably from the constant threat of the Dursley’s punishment hanging down on him. Sure, they were pathetic excuses of human beings, but their punishments for what he learned while leafing through a dictionary, was called deductions, were... not pleasant. The punishments for when his emotions went out of control and another ‘outburst’ happened were... rather worse.

But he still possessed the capability to breathe, eat, read, drink, defecate and make deductions, so it wasn’t too bad.

Although he was still puzzled by his oddly-shaped scar...

No matter though.

Even if some things regretfully did not make sense, he would keep going forward.

He would keep deducting and asking questions and being curious and keep knowing things.

Because what else  _could_ Harlow do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COld


	2. sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip tweety

Before Harlow was Harlow, or even Harry, when he was simply ‘Freak’ or on occasions when Petunia or Vernon were in a good mood, ‘Boy’, he had found a sparrow on the ground, right beneath a tree. He couldn’t see any nest, and it’s wing was all twisted, and when it keened and stared right up at him, he couldn’t help but see in the small bird’s helplessness himself.

So he devoutly swore that he’d protect it, like how he would wish in dark nights sitting outside, stomach cramping with hunger, that someone would protect him.

And so he made a little nest of scraps inside of his cupboard and showered the little sparrow in affection, it’s little chirrups drawing out of him a rare gap-toothed grin. He fed it the little seeds in the moldy bread the Dursley’s would occasionally toss him whenever there was no scraps left and they were... attempting to diet, and so bought the seeded bread.

He picked up little worms and fed it to the animal, he took it around and made sure it’s wing healed properly (well, it was still kind of crooked, but the little sparrow wasn’t shrieking and flailing whenever he touched it), and named... no, at this point the sparrow wasn’t an it to Freak. He named the sparrow Tweety.

And he took Tweety with him whenever he could, stuffing him into Freak’s hole-ridden pockets and letting Tweety peck at his fingers but then—

Then Dudley found Tweety. Dudley found him and laughed and snatched him and squeezed him and wouldn’t stop, relishing in the very rare tears of Freak as Freak sobbed and sobbed, shrieked and begged and attempted to get Tweety away from Dudley, but his attempts remained attempts for Dudley was too big and Freak too small. Tweety wouldn’t stop shrieking, either, until he did.

When Tweety has stopped, and was limp and cold and yet covered in warm blood with delicate little bones poking out and his little eyes blank and devoid of life, Dudley shoved Tweety at Freak and screamed for Petunia as Freak stopped sobbing and just stared at Tweety, tears staining his cheeks and eyes swollen red. Tweety stained his hands red, and feathers stuck to the blood.

When Petunia daintily ran over, she gasped as Dudley gasped out through fake tears that the freak had killed the little birdy.

Freak was locked in his cupboard for half a month, food and water shoved in before the cupboard door was slammed.

“Too keep you away from the poor wildlife and our Dudders,  _freak_. ” Vernon had claimed, spittle flying and his face reaching new shades of puce never before discovered.

When Freak sat in the darkness, all he could see whenever he closed his eyes was Tweety’s dead body. When he was finally let out of the cupboard and allowed to have a quick shower to get rid of the ‘horrid stink’, he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed but every time he glanced at his hands, he glimpsed blood staining his fingernails and seeping into the cracks of his hands.

But after the shower, as he stood on Dudley’s stool so he could see his blurred head in the foggy mirror, he thought and he thought and he thought about why it hurt so much.

Why he hurt so much.

And in that moment, he knew that it was because he...

He had loved Tweety.

Tweety had been his best friend.

And then Tweety was dead.

~~_ ( Something inside of him cracked a little and he realized he hated Dudley. Hated him more than anything or anyone in the world, more than he hated Petunia and Vernon and all of the other boys that followed Dudley’s lead.) _ ~~

And as Freak stared at his face in the mirror, ignoring the distant sounds of his shrieking aunt, he decided that love was overrated. That friends were overrated.

Everyone was going to die in the end... what was the point?

A couple of months later when he started school and was christened with the name Harry Potter, he decided that the point was to learn.

The point was to learn and deduct and figure things out and—

And to never ever stop.

Because he later realized... life was a game. There was the winners and the losers, the cheaters and the tryhards, but generally, there was two sides: the winning side and the losing side.

And when Dudley killed Tweety he and Tweety had  _lost_.

About a year after that realization, when he had read a dictionary (which was rather hard to read but he got through it) and learnt of sentiment and chemicals (chemistry was  _ fascinating _ ) and defects (when the teacher had mentioned the word when reading something, Dudley had instantly adopted the insult as his favourite one to call ‘the freak’ for the next month and mangled it horribly whenever attempting to pronounce it), he realized something and immediately began to live by it.

Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side.

And the boy did not intend to lose.

Not again.

Not ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay hear me out would pickled eyeballs taste like pickles?????


	3. it has long been an axiom if mine that the little things are the most important.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> b yE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not cold anymore. my nose still hurts though.

The week before Harlow’s eighth birthday, on the day of Dudley’s birthday ( _ thirty-two presents, that’s a new low, even for the Dursleys _ ), they went into London to get additional gifts for the imbecilic pig.

Harlow was curious as to why he was shoved a ratty old backpack, and told to put all of the items that couldn’t be sold from his cupboard in one pile, and put all the rest that could be sold in another. Apparently when they went out to London he’d be using the bag to put the ‘unsellables’ in the skip. Harlow put his ratty old bear with only one arm and one of its eyes torn out in the second part of the bag, along with the food he had stashed and a couple of juice boxes, a tiny, threadbare blanket, and an extremely interesting book themed as a type of log on fascinating scientific discoveries. It had little notes scrubbed in the margins from him and tears, stains, a spot on the near-blank cover where he ripped off the library sticker, dirt in the spine. But Harlow absolutely  _ loved _ it and would never risk losing it, unlike the careless librarians who didn’t even see him brazenly walking out the door with it. They were his precious possessions, and if the Dursley’s were going to do what he was thinking they would, then he’d need to keep them.

And Harlow was left in a random alley with a handful of bills and his backpack in exchange for never contacting or referencing, even  _ thinking _ of Dursleys, Harlow hypothesized that him being left in the streets of London was most likely one of the pig’s birthday presents.

_Wonderful_.

The dark-haired boy was most definitely smart enough to know that foster care was shitty, and too many kids slipped through the cracks, and so he did not go to the police.

He took to the streets.

... which, admittedly, might have been a little dumb of him.

_A little_ .

To be honest, he had barely a clue what would be awaiting him, but he should’ve done his research better, should’ve prepared for it, planned ahead—

Slowly, he staggered up using the wall and gingerly pat his face, before flinching at the pain. He knew he at the very least had a bloody lip, probably two black eyes (his right one hurt more though), a broken nose, various cuts and bruises across his face and around his body (a very prominent bruise located in the form of a big hand on his wrist, a prominent cut on his hip), and a dislocated thumb.

He gave a small cry of pain as he popped it back into place, rigorously following textbook procedure and giving a small sigh of relief as the pain faded down to a throb.

He then fought back the tears that stung his eyes because  _oh whatever‘s out there, it hurt like a bitch._

Muttering curses most would be a mind one ‘his young’ should not know,  _ever_ , under his breath, he tried to remember where he stashed his book and was stupidly relieved when he found it sitting in the skip across the alley.

There would’ve been a problem with finding some toilet paper or something of the sort for his nose, but there was a ratty dishcloth beneath his book in the skip. Quickly, he tore off the cleanest part of it, then split that into two and stuffed the little bits up both his nostrils.

He didn’t know where to find any ice to keep the swelling down on his various bruises and his eyes, so his eyes flicked to the locked doors facing the alley. Then, shaking his head, he decided against it.

Sure, the swelling would be a bitch and he’d probably have to stick to the alleys for a while to keep away from London’s concerned public— and the less savory part of it. At least it seemed no one had stolen this particular alleyway, and it did have some promising looking boxes, not to mention—

Was that a sandwich sitting on top of the skip?

Harlow practically jumped on it, before tears leaked past his eyes at the sudden pain and he let loose a strangled whimper.

Dammit. A bit not good, there. He made tiny, gasping noises beneath his breath at the pain, his eyes squeezing tight shut as he bit his lip. He moved a bit and white flashed behind his eyes. He might’ve tasted blood.

Then there was a thunk as he fell right through the rubbish toward the bottom, surrounded by rubbish bags and it was just him, the inside of the half-full skip, and possibly some rats.

He laid there for a long time, just staying still and making sure not to aggravate his hip— the source of most of his pain.

He really hadn’t even realized it was injured. Stupid mistake, stupid, stupid, stupid...

Apparently the Dursleys were right on that about him.

After a while, he fell asleep (or passed out), the sandwich in the back of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to cuddle my dog.
> 
> pew pew pew.
> 
> my head died.


	4. I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people are confusing.
> 
> ...anyways, on with the chapter, haha. I didn’t know what to use for the chapter title so have some lovely Irene Adler, our queen.

When Harlow woke back up, it was to footsteps and the sound of voices— and a  _stink_.

His nose scrunched up in disgust. Earlier, he hadn’t registered the disgusting smell of all the rubbish, but then again that wasn’t really the most important thing— there was still voices.

Ignoring everything else, he focused on the voices— one was female, around late thirties, early forties, definitely a smoker, probably sleep deprived. He recognized and nearly sympathized with that— nearly.

The second one was male, early twenties, rather loud and sounded rather... perky. Like the antithesis of the first.

They seemed to be having an argument about the first’s smoking habits, so Harlow tuned out and focused on the cracks of light seeping through the bags of rubbish, revealing the moldy, rubbish covered sandwich from before had fallen down with him.

... he had eaten worse.

And not eaten at all— he preferred eating to not, no matter the food, unless it was poisonous.

So slowly, careful to not make any noise, he reached for it— before instantly freezing and hissing, making a little thump as the rubbish shifted around him. Dried blood cracked on his skin and fluttered into the rubbish, little bits of skin flaking off additionally, and dancing in the dust motes.

There was a pause in the conversation outside the skip, before person two asked, “What was that?”

Person one suddenly snorted. “Probably rats. What, are you...  _ scared _ ?” She barked a laugh. Her voice was rough, tinged with amusement.

Person two sounded frantic, denying it. “No, no! Of course not!” He nervously chuckled. “It was  _ obviously _ just rats... but anyways, do you want to go back inside?”

Person one barked another laugh, before footsteps started and quickly receded.

Harlow waited until he couldn’t hear them anymore before letting unintelligible noise flow through his mouth, tears in his eyes. It wasn’t the worse beating he had ever had... (his mind flashed to the incident on his seventh birthday) but he wasn’t expecting it, and no matter what, he knew beatings would always hurt. Pain would be pain, it was universal— for most people, at the very least. And disgustingly, he had to be slotted into the ‘most people’ category on this one. 

His joints hurt, his neck hurt, his eyes  _ached_ , his lip wouldn’t stop throbbing, his head wouldn’t stop throbbing, his thumb wouldn’t stop throbbing, his arms and legs wouldn’t stop throbbing, he was so  _ fucking hungry _ it felt like his stomach was about to eat itself, and generally everything just hurt. But with a shaking hand, he slowly reached over and dragged the sandwich back to himself, quickly choking down the filthy thing. But after the hunger was addressed, the aches just sharpened and his throat made it’s hurts known, feeling so dry it would crack and shatter like Petunia’s fancy, cheap china if he were to speak.

He needed water.

And for that he needed to get up.

...out of the rubbish he was buried in.

So he cleared his mind, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled himself up.

Pain, pain, pain, everything hurt, everything hurt, but he powered through it and ended up on top of the skip, shaking slightly.

Okay, okay, okay.

He could do this, he could do this, he could do this. He wasn’t going to be beaten by some little injuries, he was going to survive this, and learn and learn and learn and never stop and—

And blood was leaking into his eye from a new cut above his eyebrow, probably acquired while he was pushing himself out of the skip.

And his hip hurt like a  _ bitch _ . He glanced down and saw blood seeping through his shirt and his ratty hoodie. He really, really,  _ really  _ didn’t want to lift up his shirt that was seemingly glued to the cut (he assumed he got it from when he was tossed at the wall of the alley the night before) on his hip, but although he cringed at the thought, he was probably going to have to do that when he found a water fountain.

Quickly, looking back into the skip, he carefully rummaged for a moment, before finding a crumpled up, used bottle of water. 

_ Bingo _ .

Quickly, he pulled Dudley’s old hoodie tighter around him, before pulling down the hood. The thing was entirely way too big for him, but if people didn’t look too closely at him, it  _ might _ just work.

His eyes flicked to his hole-ridden jeans and the sneakers that were mostly duct-tape at that point.

_Might_ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my head feels are scrambled and I dunno what to do about it like so many things are happening in my head at once


	5. you feel pain, but you don’t have to fear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s short, I’m aware.

When Harlow ( _ somehow _ ) made it to a small park filled with trees after avoiding a near-concerning amount of unsavory individuals roaming the streets, he was still undetected. So quickly, he filled the bottle with water, and hid himself in a bush... which caused more scrapes but it was relatively dark, so it hid him well enough.

So quickly, he took off his hoodie, ripped the shirt away from the cut, and splashed water onto his side. He bit down on his lip and tasted blood again. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t so he didn’t. Quickly afterwards, when it started bleeding again, (it was surrounded by disgusting  _ yellow _ what the hell), he ripped off a piece of the hoodie and tied it around his waist. He then held the water bottle to his right eye and whimpered quietly because  _fuck_.

_Fuck_.

When later, he stumbled back to his alleyway, the book was gone, he wasn’t even surprised.

Couldn’t even cry.


	6. between you and me, John, I always survive a fall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there’s little mice running across my brain. my ears additionally will not stop ringing, but that’s nothing new.

A few months later, he had kind of gotten used to the ‘street life’.

Kind of.

If he stayed quiet and unobtrusive, some of the homeless people living in an abandoned subway tunnel wouldn’t object to him— although he quickly learned to not leave anything of value (blankets, pillows, any food, anything even possibly sellable, etc.) there if he didn’t want to come back to it gone.

There was also a sandwich shop that tended to throw out moldy food into a nearby skip pretty quickly, so that was a... relatively alright source of food. He got a sandwich maybe once a day— if the rats didn’t get there first. The rats were actually  _vicious_ . Harlow tried not to mess with the rats.

Or the  _ gang _ called ‘The Rats’. Stupid name, stupid people, it was a band of homeless kids around the age of ten to seventeen, and while they weren’t quite as stupid as Dudley, they were close. Well, except for their leader. She was still an idiot, but smart for society’s standards. But anyways, they had caught him nicking from them once— he had been doing it for a few weeks before they noticed, and then another week before they caught him. They beat him up bad, tossed him around a bit, before letting him go with the threat of if they caught him again, he wouldn’t ever be able to walk again.

And he liked walking, thank-you-very-much, so he was staying away from them for the time being.

But anyways, generally, he also had to avoid ‘concerned’ adults, genuinely concerned adults, and... well, just about any other street kid, not to mention any of the addicts on the streets. The addicts were probably the most dangerous in his mind, because they were the most desperate. And sure, at points he stumbled upon some either doped up enough to not hurt him, or on their deathbed from either withdrawal or overdose, but he was much more likely to find one that was able, willing and ready to sell his organs on the black market then any other type of addict.

A tactic he came up with to avoid the ‘unfriendlies’ as he started to call them, was taking to the roofs. They were fun to run on, too, and he soon came to discover he was most  _ definitely _ an adrenaline junkie. They were also how he discovered his hideout, what he might call his home while in a good mood— a small, stocky little medical building with three small rooms and a broom closet. Whoever used to run it wasn’t part of a company, and didn’t leave anything in their will, and no one wanted it so it just sat there. He ended up stuffing all of his stuff in the broom closet, putting his pillows and things there so he could sleep in it, and then left most other things there alone. No one really went in the building anymore, but the broom closet was rather off to the side so it ran a lower risk of having someone look in it. It was larger than his cupboard, too, so that was a plus.

And to expand upon his earlier statement, he left everything alone but for the bandages, expired medicine, and equipment. Almost all of the medicine was most definitely expired, and the ones that didn’t fit into ‘most definitely’ fit into ‘probably’. He wasn’t comfortable risking it ( _ he wasn’t  _ stupid , _he wasn’t taking possibly expired medicine_ ), but he  _ was _ comfortable experimenting with it. He had beakers, syringes (that he probably wasn’t going to use but they added to the atmosphere), medical masks and medical gloves. All were dusty, but he loved that stuff. He put it all nicely organized into a box and put that box into a shelf in his closet.

Anyways, though, he had a pretty nice setup in his opinion. So he took a few risks, nicked a nice pair of sneakers, got a dark green hoodie with a few suspicious stains from a skip, and finally—

Got caught stealing from The Rats again.

And insulted their leader.

And their gang sign.

And insinuated one of the ones who caught him was cheating on his girlfriend with two other girls ( _it was_ true _! But... probably a bit idiotic. He shouldn’t speak to the idiots, it only seemed to land him in deeper trouble_ ).

And they were right— he couldn’t walk when they let him go with the warning they’d kill him the next time, laughing at his shaking form. He ended up dragging himself beneath a few boxes, and when he woke up he couldn’t remember where he was. All he could remember was the pain and need to get someplace safe.

He stayed under the boxes for a bit, before he got up and somehow made it back to his hideout— and when he got there, he promised not to let himself get cocky again.

Cockiness got you killed fast. And Harlow intended on surviving.


	7. To a great mind, nothing is little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here’s a pathetically short chapter after a pathetically long break.

Around the time Harlow guessed he would’ve been turning nine, he was kind of.

Well.

_ Absorbed _ into a network— part information, part little tasks, that sort of thing. It paid in food and little favors and the occasional article of clothing or a new pair of shoes, so he didn’t leave it, but it was a bit strange. Some of his... coworkers, maybe, remarked upon how much he looked like the man (Sherlock Holmes, apparently, although he could appreciate the old English in the name ( _ wasn’t Harlow’s fault it was so prett— fascinating, very fascinating to hear _ )), but he just shrugged it off. He just passed along some information here and there, quietly assisting because he could appreciate someone smart enough to know it was the homeless people who had the most information.

He still stayed away from The Rats, of course. Far, far away. Learned how to pickpocket properly when he wanted, learned that having ‘pretty’ features on the streets was a curse but he’d have to use it to his advantage, learned that when people saw him and realized he was ‘homeless’ they got angry at him because he made them feel bad that he existed.

He learned again, like he had learned a long time ago, nice people didn’t really exist.

There were the people who would take and take and take and take and then smile with perfect and straight white teeth, not like the many sharp, crooked ones in fairy tales but the worse ones, the ones that existed in real life. 

Then there was the people who would take and take and take and give a little, just enough to make themselves feel better.

The people who would take and take and give a little, enough for it to maybe be enough to survive.

The people who simply ignored them, or kicked them a little, not much of a difference.

And then there was the people who took and gave in equal measure. Those people were rare, and this Sherlock Holmes seemed to be one of them.

Maybe he wasn’t though— mind games came very easily to the right kind of people.

He gave a small, rare smile full of yellow teeth and a brittle emotion that was almost content, staring down for a moment at the euros he had conned out of the man now a few meters back, who would soon begin to wonder why he just gave ten euros to a random, dirty looking kid, before quickly blending into the crowd.

He continued on, just one part of the whole that was the people of the crowded streets of London, before he got tripped.

Fell.

Hassled, shoved and pushed before he ended up staggering back with a bruise blossoming on his cheek.

He felt something wet drip down it, and amended that statement. There was additionally a cut on his rapidly bruising cheek.

Suddenly, at the sound of footsteps, he whipped his head up, hair flying everywhere and whipping his face.

Bright green eyes frantically searched for an exit as he registered the much larger forms blocking the entrance to the alleyway. He took a step back— only to stumble as his foot met a wire fence. He tried to keep his voice from wavering when he asked, “What do you want?”

Cruel laughter was his only response.

Harlow’s mind worked fast, trying to find a way to get out of the situation, to escape. The alley was too narrow for him to run past them, so... the fence, maybe? No, no, it was too sharp, too steep, and he might be fairly good at climbing but he wouldn’t be fast enough for them to not be able to grab him as he climbed, so what would he do?

What would he do, what would he do?

He bit back the automatic response to tears at his panic. What did the men want?

Child trafficking, human trafficking in general, murder, it couldn’t be to rob him blind as he, to anyone who cared to look, was quite obviously part of the homeless population of London— he held back a flinch at the next guess ( _ nonononono he wouldn’t make it easy he’d die first before they touched him like that— _ ), before being rational and well and truly assessing them.

With their heavy muscles, many tattoos, shaved heads, _ leather jackets ? _

Playing up the stereotype quite well, of gang members.

Quickly, thetried to figure out if it was a ruse— but no, he couldn’t think of one— maybe a scenario where they scared him, and he ran to a third member for help, one plus two equals he gets kidnapped and never sees the light of day again.

But time was running out, and— it didn’t matter what they were, just escape, he could speculate later—

What did he have on himself?

Six bright obnoxious pink bandaids, a small, dull cooking knife, a sharp rock, a small piece of toffy he was planning on savoring when he got to base, ten euro, and... a slightly damp lighter.

He kept his eyes on the two burly men, making sure fear was painted across his face (it would make them more compliant, they were used to people fearing them and would know the ‘usual reactions’ to fear. Underestimation was a powerful tool).“W-who are you?” He bit his lip and fidgeted a small bit, enough to simultaneously make him look nervous (although he... was already nervous,) and throw attention away from his hands moving to his pockets, for if it were spotted it would be assumed to be just a bit more of the aforementioned fidgeting. His eyes were just the tiniest bit to the side of the men. Peripheral vision was a powerful tool, and would pick up on minute movement faster.

Cruel, jeering laughter was the response, and the brunette boy fought down a small flinch. He liked to think he had fairly thick skin, considering the Dursleys, but then again he had always been weak to both praise and mocking. He hated that weakness, but it was just... a part of him. Quickly, he fought down the urge to scrunch his shoulders up. He had  some pride that he would enjoy keeping intact, if he got out of the mess alive.

... he hoped he would get out of the mess alive.

But hoping never did anything, not really.

Hoping was just wanting something, but being too stupid to figure out that you needed to actually work to get it.

So Harlow—

Harlow would work to get out of the mess alive.

He would succeed.

( _A little voice whispered doubts in the back of his head. He ignored it, because he would survive it. He would survive it and make it out of there a free person._

_He_ would.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way, any fic recs would be a delight. i have withdrawal symptoms.


	8. Remember Sherlock, I was a solider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story is more of a side project- forgot about it for a while honestly. you guys can probably expect more chapters soon though, recently got more inspiration and these extremely short chapters aren’t too hard to write.
> 
> the chapter’s been dedicated to everyone who decided to comment, because really, that stuff fuels my soul.

“Aw, look, little kiddy’s scared of us. Boo-hoo, you wanna go crying to your mummy kid? ... well, too bad, because soon enough you won’t have a mummy no more!”

Cruel, jeering laughter.

Harlow stared and mostly remained unaffected. He attempted to make his eyes water though, for his acting. He had never had a mother, so really it wasn’t too big of an insult.

Or maybe that should make it a larger insult.

The green eyed child let out a breath of air, eyes trained just to the side of the men. Peripheral view was powerful.

How was he going to use what he had on him? The lighter was his trump card, but how would it be used—

Ah.

He had it now.

... the Dursleys weren’t around him anymore.

They were gone— off back to Privet Drive, while he was just another child frequenting and sleeping on the streets and in the abandoned buildings within big, bad London.

And not many survived in big, bad London without being smart.

And Harlow was smart.

He knew it, the Dursleys knew it, even the  _ Rats _ knew it.

But these... thugs, didn’t. So, with this one slight thing in his favour...

_~~ (And the one thing the Dursleys made sure he never used. But the Dursleys were gone now, weren’t they?) ~~ _

The dark haired boy gave no warning when he struck.

Let the emotions, the frustration, anger, helplessness, even that fear that he felt welling up inside him at the merciless, cruel look in their eyes all burst out at once, and as he focused on right above their heads, with the desperation to make it out of there alive and intact and preferably in time to scavenge something for supper crashing down on him—

Everything went black. He felt as though he were being pushed through a tiny straw, his eyes being forced into the back of his head and his eardrums pushed deeper into his head. The pressure was unimaginable, and just as though he thought he was going to die there, he was beside the thug on the right, stumbling as the thug jerked back and now his lighter was out and he flicked it on and slammed it onto thug on the right and he stumbled away and there was yelling and someone was screaming and why was he bleeding and the thug on the left wasn’t on fire so Harlow set him on fire and-

He woke up in his home, in the small closet. He woke up with sloppily placed bandaids on his bleeding arm and a cold beaker against his burnt fingers. He woke up with faint memories of staggering home to screams and shouts and fire, so much fire and a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes that looked intrigued so Harlow ran and ran and-

He woke up alone.

It had never really bothered him before.

He was used to it, really.

But as he sat there, it-

Harlow glanced back down at his injuries, and gave a hoarse laugh. His throat wouldn’t stop hurting.

When he looked back down at his fingers he realized his right pinky finger was gone.

That’s when the laughter turned into screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> splinching.
> 
> never fun. make no mistake, Harlow has a razor-focus when he puts his mind to something, but he’s stressed out and worn-down and had a million other things racing through his mind. it’s not too hard to get distracted and splinch.


End file.
